Hi all,
I had some difficulties moving this blog to my new email address, so I had to use a new URL.
New site:
http://theointhecity1.blogspot.com/
September 4, 2010
Not Your Average Love Story
I just came across an old book my grandparents (on my mom's side) filled out and gave to me when I was a baby. It has been less than a year since Grandma passed away, and over three years since Grandpa passed away, so it has been a special experience to read through their answers.
Here is my favorite entry so far, filled out by Grandma and Grandpa together, it is a great example of their couple dynamics and sense of humor. Questions are in bold italics, their answers in regular font:
I'll never forget the day we met: In Rush City. Beverly (Grandma's sister) and I with Uncle Alvin and Grandpa - some parade or deal in town.
What we said to each other: Hi- probably not much more- we were both very shy.
Our first impressions of each other were: She was a flirt.
If someone had said then that we would be married, our reaction would have been: Grandma- NEVER. He had an old car- no job. Full of mischief- liked to tease everyone.
The first evening we spent together was: Roller skating.
I knew we were in love when: Grandpa went in the Army- we missed each other very much- wrote many love letters. Grandpa would hitchhike home on weekends.
We were together for three years before Grandpa popped the question. We were sitting on an old leather couch under a willow tree at Grandma's farm in the front yard.
We celebrated our engagement by: We did not have a lot of money and we didn't go out for dinner- we went to the movies. Grandpa's mother died- his dad moved in with Allen- he had no home so we made a home together. His mom died the same time as he got out of the Army. Then he went to college.
This exchange is pure gold to me. It is a perfect example of how unromantically romantic my Grandma and Grandpa were. They were so in love but rarely let on to how sappy they really could be about it, only giving subtle hints like the ones seen in this entry.
Here is my favorite entry so far, filled out by Grandma and Grandpa together, it is a great example of their couple dynamics and sense of humor. Questions are in bold italics, their answers in regular font:
I'll never forget the day we met: In Rush City. Beverly (Grandma's sister) and I with Uncle Alvin and Grandpa - some parade or deal in town.
What we said to each other: Hi- probably not much more- we were both very shy.
Our first impressions of each other were: She was a flirt.
If someone had said then that we would be married, our reaction would have been: Grandma- NEVER. He had an old car- no job. Full of mischief- liked to tease everyone.
The first evening we spent together was: Roller skating.
I knew we were in love when: Grandpa went in the Army- we missed each other very much- wrote many love letters. Grandpa would hitchhike home on weekends.
We were together for three years before Grandpa popped the question. We were sitting on an old leather couch under a willow tree at Grandma's farm in the front yard.
We celebrated our engagement by: We did not have a lot of money and we didn't go out for dinner- we went to the movies. Grandpa's mother died- his dad moved in with Allen- he had no home so we made a home together. His mom died the same time as he got out of the Army. Then he went to college.
This exchange is pure gold to me. It is a perfect example of how unromantically romantic my Grandma and Grandpa were. They were so in love but rarely let on to how sappy they really could be about it, only giving subtle hints like the ones seen in this entry.
August 27, 2010
Chess at the Chatterbox Pub
If dinner and a movie just won't suffice, you can always try dinner, board games, and a movie. If you think can handle that, check out the Chatterbox Pub (http://www.chatterboxpub.net/). I'd provide directions, but my sense of direction has been so discredited by this blog that you might as well just go straight to the website.
When Joe "nonchalantly" suggested we go back to the Chatterbox, I knew he finally felt that the past few weeks of playing chess on his phone had adequately prepared him to beat me. So when the hostess asked us which game we'd like (our choices included Candy Land, Yahtzee, Connect 4, Apples to Apples, and more) it took very little deliberation to decide on chess.
Although the Chatterbox Pub was voted the "Best Place for a First Date," I'd recommend it for any occasion. The atmosphere is relaxed and fun, full of people playing board games and video games while they eat unique and tasty food. We both opted for the specialty pizzas, I got "A Night in the Box: A double layer of roasted garlic, fresh tomato, garlic infused mushrooms, smoked Italian cheese blend, ricotta, marinara, and the option of jalapeños for the daring." As I am not very daring, I ordered my pizza sans jalapeños, and it was still delicious. Joe got the "Hellcat Inferno Pizza: Hellcat Inferno glazed chicken breast on a bed of sweet caramelized onions, topped with bleu cheese, smoked bacon and parmesan."
Since I have not spent all of my spare time in the past few weeks playing chess against a computer, I lost. Regardless, I had a very good time. My Blackberry is now equipped with a chess app, and in a few weeks we might have to go back so I can regain my title of Chess Champion.
August 10, 2010
Journey to Flugtag
FLY DAY
While nowhere near “bus-savvy,” my navigating skills have reached the elevated status of “slightly above inept.” When my computer is able to pick up my neighbor’s wifi signal, Metro Transit’s Trip Planner (http://www.metrotransit.org/TripPlanner/Default.aspx) almost always guides me to where I need to go. Despite my maturing sense of direction, I was still nervous about taking the bus to Flugtag alone. Immediately after I found the intersection closest to Lake Harriet, my internet cut out. Without the help of the omnipotent Trip Planner, I decided to take the bus to downtown St. Paul, cross my fingers, and follow a crowd, loud noises, or signs to Harriet Island.
Since I’d missed out on carpooling with my friends to the event, this was going to be a solo journey. Standing at the bus stop, I formulated my plan: I’d ask the bus driver for directions, and go from there. While I tried to reassure myself I’d be fine, I realized just how lost I was: How will I know when to get off? Had I missed the bus? Will I even be able to find my friends when I get there? As my brain went into overdrive contemplating all the cracks in my plan, a young woman walked up to me and asked,
“Has the 3 come yet?”
“No,” I replied, “At least not in the last ten minutes. Is there any chance you’re taking it to Flugtag?”
Fortunately, she was (like me) going to Flugtag, and (unlike me) knew exactly how to get there. Praise Jesus.
After five minutes of pleasant chitchat with my new friend, Megan, the bus finally arrived. I’d only seen the 3 so crowded during rush hour, but now instead of business professionals checking their Blackberrys and students looking through note cards, the bus was teeming with drunken “frat boys” (sorry for abusing that term, my brother is a frat boy and I think he and his frat “brothers” are wonderful, but I’m trying to conjure up the stereotypical image of a frat boy. Actual members of fraternities or not, these guys fit the stereotype perfectly). Megan and I were warmly welcomed by this crowd, who offered to kick their friends out of the seats next to them so we’d have a spot, but we walked past them laughing.
Megan and I felt a sense of sober solidarity with the overwhelmed family that boarded our bus just in time to hear the frat boys chant, “Flug-tag! Flug-tag!” I’ve never been on a party bus, but I was starting to think this rowdy bus would count.
That is, until our bus driver put the kibosh on the party. Apparently he’d been yelling at everyone to be quiet on his microphone for quite some time, but no one heard him, as the chants of “Flug-tag! Flug-tag!” had muffled his angry pleas for silence. Fed up, our tiny Asian bus driver parked on the side of the road, stood up, and with a glint of rage in his eye yelled,
“Be quiet!! I know you have been drinking the alcohol, and if you don’t quiet down I will kick you all off this bus and call the cops!”
The bus driver’s speech kept everyone quiet for a good thirty seconds, then they were roaring again. The chanting briefly subsided because the frat boys spent some time calculating when exactly they begin chanting, “Flug-tag! Flug-tag!” again without getting kicked off the bus. Surprisingly, their calculations were incorrect. By mandate of our tired driver, we departed the bus one stop early, chanting as we disembarked.
Megan and I followed the crowd to the river, making the mistake of following a pack of drunken guys (from our bus) who made a pit stop to pee in a parking ramp. We recounted just how ridiculous our bus ride had been, and wondered as we walked across the bridge if we’d ever find our friends in the giant sea of people below. Once we got through the giant Red Bull blow-up gates, we amicably parted ways, wishing each other luck, and thanking our respective deities for the traveling companion.
Shocking as it may be, I ended my journey to Flugtag both alive and at Flugtag. Stay tuned for Part II, my account of the actual event!
While nowhere near “bus-savvy,” my navigating skills have reached the elevated status of “slightly above inept.” When my computer is able to pick up my neighbor’s wifi signal, Metro Transit’s Trip Planner (http://www.metrotransit.org/TripPlanner/Default.aspx) almost always guides me to where I need to go. Despite my maturing sense of direction, I was still nervous about taking the bus to Flugtag alone. Immediately after I found the intersection closest to Lake Harriet, my internet cut out. Without the help of the omnipotent Trip Planner, I decided to take the bus to downtown St. Paul, cross my fingers, and follow a crowd, loud noises, or signs to Harriet Island.
Since I’d missed out on carpooling with my friends to the event, this was going to be a solo journey. Standing at the bus stop, I formulated my plan: I’d ask the bus driver for directions, and go from there. While I tried to reassure myself I’d be fine, I realized just how lost I was: How will I know when to get off? Had I missed the bus? Will I even be able to find my friends when I get there? As my brain went into overdrive contemplating all the cracks in my plan, a young woman walked up to me and asked,
“Has the 3 come yet?”
“No,” I replied, “At least not in the last ten minutes. Is there any chance you’re taking it to Flugtag?”
Fortunately, she was (like me) going to Flugtag, and (unlike me) knew exactly how to get there. Praise Jesus.
After five minutes of pleasant chitchat with my new friend, Megan, the bus finally arrived. I’d only seen the 3 so crowded during rush hour, but now instead of business professionals checking their Blackberrys and students looking through note cards, the bus was teeming with drunken “frat boys” (sorry for abusing that term, my brother is a frat boy and I think he and his frat “brothers” are wonderful, but I’m trying to conjure up the stereotypical image of a frat boy. Actual members of fraternities or not, these guys fit the stereotype perfectly). Megan and I were warmly welcomed by this crowd, who offered to kick their friends out of the seats next to them so we’d have a spot, but we walked past them laughing.
Megan and I felt a sense of sober solidarity with the overwhelmed family that boarded our bus just in time to hear the frat boys chant, “Flug-tag! Flug-tag!” I’ve never been on a party bus, but I was starting to think this rowdy bus would count.
That is, until our bus driver put the kibosh on the party. Apparently he’d been yelling at everyone to be quiet on his microphone for quite some time, but no one heard him, as the chants of “Flug-tag! Flug-tag!” had muffled his angry pleas for silence. Fed up, our tiny Asian bus driver parked on the side of the road, stood up, and with a glint of rage in his eye yelled,
“Be quiet!! I know you have been drinking the alcohol, and if you don’t quiet down I will kick you all off this bus and call the cops!”
The bus driver’s speech kept everyone quiet for a good thirty seconds, then they were roaring again. The chanting briefly subsided because the frat boys spent some time calculating when exactly they begin chanting, “Flug-tag! Flug-tag!” again without getting kicked off the bus. Surprisingly, their calculations were incorrect. By mandate of our tired driver, we departed the bus one stop early, chanting as we disembarked.
Megan and I followed the crowd to the river, making the mistake of following a pack of drunken guys (from our bus) who made a pit stop to pee in a parking ramp. We recounted just how ridiculous our bus ride had been, and wondered as we walked across the bridge if we’d ever find our friends in the giant sea of people below. Once we got through the giant Red Bull blow-up gates, we amicably parted ways, wishing each other luck, and thanking our respective deities for the traveling companion.
Shocking as it may be, I ended my journey to Flugtag both alive and at Flugtag. Stay tuned for Part II, my account of the actual event!
August 2, 2010
Day One in the City
Having said goodbye to the town of colleges, cows and contentment, and a short unemployed stint in my parents’ basement, I find myself in the gigantic, scary city of Minneapolis. While not completely foreign to me, this city is holds many untapped resources: places and things for me to explore, hear, swim in, see, and eat. No parents, no homework, and no cows. With my meager earnings brought in by a paid internship that has nothing to do with my biology degree, I am off on my own for the first time in a big city.
Thus begins my first workday in downtown Minneapolis. Bye-bye parent’s basement in suburbia!
The plan: my father has equipped me with a GPS-enabled Blackberry and two canisters of mace. “Be careful getting on and off the bus,” he warns, “and stay away from Block E! That is where all the gangs hang out!” Having little idea of the location of Block E, I look him in the eyes and say in my most convincing tone, “Don’t worry, dad. I will have my mace holder unlocked and ready to spray at all moments, I won’t talk to strangers, and I will only use public transportation when it is light out.” Dad almost believes me, sends me on my way, and tells me to call if I get lost.
After boarding the bus from my new place in St. Paul, my ride goes smoothly enough. I’d looked up the fare and had my $2.25 rush hour fare in correct change, I sat up in the front, intently studying the street signs I passed so as not to miss my stop. Since I have almost no sense of direction, it took me a while to realize that my bus, though the right number, was heading in the wrong direction.
After about four stops, I asked the driver, “Is this bus going to downtown Minneapolis?”
“Downtown St. Paul, actually. You want to get on the bus across the street.”
A lot of good my GPS phone did me.
My first day at work was full of informational pamphlets and too many faces and names to remember. I ate lunch alone, observing various business professionals scurrying around the skyway, acting busy on their phones, convening for lunch meetings, and power walking in their dress skirts and tennis shoes.
The bus ride back to my car was headed in the right direction, and pretty uneventful, save for the 3-year-old who sat next to me and sang hip-hop melodies while picking his nose and jumping around the entire ride:
Feel the melody in the rhythm of the music around you, around you
I'm gonna take you there, I'm gonna take you there
So don't be scared . . .
We can go anywhere, go anywhere.
Chris Brown never sounded so good.
Thus begins my first workday in downtown Minneapolis. Bye-bye parent’s basement in suburbia!
The plan: my father has equipped me with a GPS-enabled Blackberry and two canisters of mace. “Be careful getting on and off the bus,” he warns, “and stay away from Block E! That is where all the gangs hang out!” Having little idea of the location of Block E, I look him in the eyes and say in my most convincing tone, “Don’t worry, dad. I will have my mace holder unlocked and ready to spray at all moments, I won’t talk to strangers, and I will only use public transportation when it is light out.” Dad almost believes me, sends me on my way, and tells me to call if I get lost.
After boarding the bus from my new place in St. Paul, my ride goes smoothly enough. I’d looked up the fare and had my $2.25 rush hour fare in correct change, I sat up in the front, intently studying the street signs I passed so as not to miss my stop. Since I have almost no sense of direction, it took me a while to realize that my bus, though the right number, was heading in the wrong direction.
After about four stops, I asked the driver, “Is this bus going to downtown Minneapolis?”
“Downtown St. Paul, actually. You want to get on the bus across the street.”
A lot of good my GPS phone did me.
My first day at work was full of informational pamphlets and too many faces and names to remember. I ate lunch alone, observing various business professionals scurrying around the skyway, acting busy on their phones, convening for lunch meetings, and power walking in their dress skirts and tennis shoes.
The bus ride back to my car was headed in the right direction, and pretty uneventful, save for the 3-year-old who sat next to me and sang hip-hop melodies while picking his nose and jumping around the entire ride:
Feel the melody in the rhythm of the music around you, around you
I'm gonna take you there, I'm gonna take you there
So don't be scared . . .
We can go anywhere, go anywhere.
Chris Brown never sounded so good.
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